


Doors, And Their Nature

by FenVallas



Series: Revasel Lavellan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FenVallas/pseuds/FenVallas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He opens and shuts doors without a warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doors, And Their Nature

Revasel made her away across Haven with purpose, making a valiant attempt to ignore the feeling of eyes on her back. The crunching of the snow beneath her bare feet barely sounded in her skull, swallowed by the cavernous echoing of her thoughts as they churned inside of her. They were as tumultuous as the Breach, which loomed at her back like a manifestation of her constant anxiety.

Around her, the world was dyed pale yellow-orange, deep violet shadows cast long in the twilight. A mourning dove wailed in the distance, and the trees shivered in the wind, their branches yet bare in Drakonis, the world below the mountains having only just started its slow thaw. Up here, it was cold and starkly beautiful, peaceful in a way that made her mood ironic.

Farther north, it was seldom this cold, and Rey’s toes were frozen, her stubborn pride preventing her from donning the Shem boots that she had been provided with. She was already here, in this world utterly foreign to her, trapped among stationary houses built around a place dedicated to the worship of a singular, absent god who had left his people by **_choice_**.

The boots seemed insignificant, but the very stones in this place sought to rob her of all that she was and replace her with Andraste. She wouldn’t give up any more of her culture.

Not for these people.

Though still several paces off, the shape of the man she was looking for grew larger as she ascended a steep hill. He was a pale streak huddled against the dark shape of the cabin he likely slept in, something gathered in his arms, a basket, she realized as she approached. The sharp medicinal smell made the contents of the basket apparent, but even if she hadn’t been able to smell, his fingers were stained tell-tale green.

“Brewing potions, Solas?” Rey stopped just short of the steps to the cabin, watching him balance the large wicker basket on his hip.

She remembered meandering by streams and through wooded areas in search of elfroot with her brother when he was still very small. Both his hands would turn bright green and he would grin at her as he picked the leaves, keeping the plant itself intact. He had been old enough to harvest the root on his own for a long while now, and he had long since surpassed her in his ability to brew restorative potions.

“I figured I might as well do something useful with my time.” His eyes scanned her face before he turned to the door. “If you wish to speak, I ask that you come inside. I have to turn these into a paste to add to my other ingredients before I brew the potions, and I cannot do that out here.”

Without another word he opened the door and stepped inside, leaving Rey to follow him at her leisure. She slipped in behind him, met with the powerful scent of herbs, ink, and decaying paper. It reminded her strongly of the inside of the Storyteller’s _aravel_ , and of shemlen carts filled with books for transport to their grand libraries.

It was dim within, but it only took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the light cast by the fire blazing in the hearth and a candle on a nearby desk, wax dripping onto the wood below. The room was organized chaos, a dozen books and twice as many sheaves of paper, bound with twine, lying on the floor in a pattern that made no sense to her eyes but was fairly clearly deliberate. Various herbs hung drying from the ceiling and a few leather packs were pushed up against a wall, one of them still overflowing with supplies.

“I apologize for the clutter,” Solas said in a tone that suggested he wasn’t sorry at all. “I haven’t had time to organize my things since I have arrived. Everything has been so hectic…”

He placed the basket of elfroot on the floor, walking over to one of his packs to rummage for something inside of it. Rey could only see his back, broad as it was it obstructed her view, but he pulled away only a moment later, a large mortar and pestle in hand. Sitting cross legged on the floor, he pulled the basket over to him and motioned to a nearby chair with a jerk of his head. “You may sit there. Simply put the papers on the floor.”

Figuring he didn’t mind, Rey dropped the papers on the ground as gently as she could and sat on the chair, watching him grind the leaves into a fine paste. She had seen her brother do this before, differently than the way she had been taught to do it by Deshanna, a method he had claimed to discover on accident when he was being particularly sloppy.

 _“The juices make it more potent,”_ he had told her, tucking a strand of long, dark hair behind his ear. _“It’s better if the elfroot’s fresh. It’s why chewing fresh elfroot leaves does more for you than chewing dry ones.”_

“Where did you learn to make potions?” Revasel asked, pulling herself from her own thoughts and Solas from his work, glancing up at her curiously, the fire light casting strange shadows on his face.

“I am self-taught, as with most things.” The man looked at her only a moment longer before the sounds of scraping resumed and he continued to grind his leaves. “Though to be honest, I do not consider myself to be self–taught at all. There is much you can learn from the Fade.”

“You learned to make potions in the Fade? While dreaming?”

Revasel couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live cut off from the wellspring of that **_something_** within her that could shape reality, but she had never heard of anyone learning things from the Fade. It wasn’t a school of magic like the shemlen Circles, and it wasn’t a guide like a Keeper. It was simply the place from which magic was drawn, untouchable and beyond them all except for those fleeting moments when its power burned brightly just beneath the surface of the skin.

He gave her an odd look, then, one she couldn’t quite place, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows arched high. “I forget myself again, it seems. My apologies. It often escapes my memory that most of what I am capable of is not common knowledge.”

“You speak like an old man, or else someone who doesn’t spend much time around other people.” She leaned forward and took the opportunity to really study his face now that searing pain wasn’t shooting up her arm and the world wasn’t roaring in her ears like a headwind.

Her first impression of him had been that his fingers were long, his grip strong, and that he was a rather homely man whose nose dominated a face that was sharp in all the wrong ways. Solas, as he called himself, was nondescript in appearance, the material of his clothing common and his way quiet. It was hard to tell how old he was from his face alone, though she guessed he was older than her, if only because of the way he held himself.

In the darkness, he looked different than he had only a few days before. His eyes glinted in the gloom, reminding her that he was very much one of her kind, though he acted nothing like the Elves she knew. Something about him had come alive, or perhaps she simply hadn’t noticed it before, a quiet thing without a name that reminded her of how she felt walking alone amongst the trees after dusk.

“Did someone not tell you?” His words drew her attention away from his features, the clacking of mortar and pestle suddenly seeming to echo. Solas did not wait for her to answer, but neither did his eyes stray from her face. “I was a hermit, before coming here to Haven.”

“A hermit?” Rey repeated the word, casting her eyes about the room as if searching for proof – really, the fact that he could serve as his own apothecary should have tipped her off. “I thought those only existed in stories, ancient elves giving little shem boys magical weapons.”

“Is it so difficult to believe that someone would not want to live within society?” He said the words as if it should be obvious – as if dealing with people were some great burden to be borne.

She didn’t understand. Upon occasion, her Clan almost felt like too much of a burden to bear, but she loved them all regardless and did the best for them that she reasonably could. Revasel couldn’t imagine giving up those connections she had forged because of the inconvenience of one or two people.

Solas reached for his basket again, emptying what he had crushed into a nearby kettle only an arm’s reach away from where he sat. “I chose my life and I chose it willingly, though I will admit openly there is much I have lost for what I have done. However, I also believe that what I have gained is worth a great deal more.”

“And what have you gained?” Rey asked, figuring it was the only logical thing to say to a man who had admitted so brazenly that he preferred utter isolation to the press of cities or even the charms of domestic life.

“Knowledge,” Solas began to crush more leaves into paste, “and more importantly, freedom. I am beholden to neither government nor religion, and I believe the price for that freedom is fair.”

“So essentially,” she leaned forward in her seat, her eyes tracing the shape of his face in the darkness, noticing for the first time that though he was pale, his skin was rough and worn, “you’re a hermit herbalist who hates people and prefers the company of his own thoughts.”

“Hermit historian,” he corrected, and the response seemed to be automatic, “herbalism is not my passion, but a necessity when one lives without much contact with the rest of “civilized” Thedas.” He paused, sitting completely still as he looked at her, eyes luminous. “And I never said I was alone, simply that I chose to remove myself from society.”

“So do you keep friends in those packs of yours, Solas?” Rey leaned back again, suspecting that he wasn’t completely sound of mind, perhaps because of the solitude he seemed to value so very much.

His eyes grew hard.

“I would thank you not to mock me, **_Herald_** ,” Solas’ voice was laced with ice. “I would understand why culling favor with a hermit would not be a priority of yours, but I assure you, I am not without friends, nor am I without purpose.”

For a moment, that quiet thing that unsettled her the same way whispering trees after dusk unsettled her flared to the surface. It stopped her blood in her veins the same way his ice had crept along the ground to freeze demons in their tracks, and she was aware that whatever else Solas was, he was a very dangerous man.

But it was gone in an instant, and weariness soothed over his features like a mask, though he wore it well.

Rey wasn’t sure if she should bolt from the room or approach him more carefully from now on, but whatever the case, he was still the only thing familiar in this alien world. Solas, as peculiar as he seemed to be, was still Elven, and Rey would willingly admit to herself that she was desperate and isolated enough to try to befriend him even when his eyes burned with icy fervor.

“I apologize,” she muttered, and his face relaxed completely. “I overstepped my bounds. That was uncalled for.”

Rey wondered if she had only imagined the abashed thing that had flitted across his features.  

“No, I apologize. I grew angry without offering an explanation,” as he spoke, he dumped more of the paste into his kettle. “If you must know, I am what those in the Imperium call a _somniari_. I walk among spirits as I sleep and interact with them freely. They are my friends and companions, from whom I have learned much.”

He admitted it so easily that it was almost jarring.

Reveasel had heard of the Dreamers before, certainly – How could she **_not_** when her brother was positively obsessed with Elven lore? – But she had never met one. The ability was said to have died out of their people long ago, just as magic was leaving their bloodline now when it had once been so common that every Elf was said to be born with the gift.

And yet here he was, a strange Elven Dreamer, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands stained green from elfroot, his feet bare and dirty.

It was almost difficult to believe, and yet believe it she did.

“That’s incredible,” she confided after a moment, offering him a small smile, which earned her a surprised stare in response. “You dream and speak to spirits? What do they tell you? What kinds of things do you try to learn? You said you were a historian?”

For a moment, he seemed overwhelmed, starting at her with open astonishment on his face, but he snapped his mouth shut in short work. The assured smile that curved his lips in that moment, his head tilted to one side as he seemed to contemplate her words, was completely different from the darkness she had seen within him before.

Something of the mask that fogged his expression cleared when he eagerly launched into an explanation. “I sleep in ruins of places long forgotten and the famous battlefields of yore,” he explained, setting the mortar and pestle on the floor next to him, freeing his hands for sweeping gestures, his ears already pricked in interest. “The Veil is so thin in these places, I can slip across it with but a thought, going deep into the Fade to see memories no other living being has seen.”

“Impressive. I had heard of Dreamers being able to control minds and kill people with a thought, but I’ve never heard anything about using it to… Why does that work, anyway?” She felt a bit ashamed asking, actually – She was a mage, so she felt she should know about the Fade and Spirits.

And yet Dalish magic was largely intuitive and about practically and survival. Theory had never been something she had concerned herself with, and she had learned early on to avoid bad Spirits, the beings the shems called Demons, because they were dangerous and destructive.

Which brought another thought to her head.

“I’ve also heard that because of those things, Demons are drawn to Dreamers, so they’re at risk for possession even more than a normal mage. How are you…? Not an Abomination?”

“Ah yes, the naught understood relationship between Spirits and Mortals. You need not worry,” and for some reason, she believed him – she wasn’t being judged. “I am more than happy to explain.”

He stood and walked closer to her, sitting on the edge of his small bed. “Spirits seek to be like Mortals, so they listen to their emotions and desires and play them out in the Fade, even as many try to push beyond the Veil. If one sleeps in places steeped in memories or blood, one can see these Spirits and learn many things about the past and the nature of the people who lived then, though decoding it can be difficult. In the Fade, everything is true.” He spread his hands wide, animatedly explaining himself, his passion written in the slope of his shoulders. “Memory and emotion are reality, so you come to understand all sides of a conflict, for better or for worse.”

“As for possession, well… I was no more tempted by Demons than one would be tempted by a bright piece of fruit.” Solas’ smile did not falter, and the implication was clear – Demons offered beautiful things, things that could seem incredibly desirable under the right circumstances, but there was always a choice.

He sighed and for a moment his face grew distant, wearing a forlorn expression that reminded her of the way her brother looked when he talked about things long lost to their people. “The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand year old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

Solas trailed off, something about the moment so intimate that Rey felt compelled to leave him to his potion making. Standing, she offered him a small smile and bowed her head, somehow managing to summon the words to thank him.

“I’ve never… met anyone willing to talk about spirits before,” she told him, watching him stand, presumably to walk her to the door. “Would you be willing to let me talk to you again?”

“Presumably. If you would be interested in doing so,” he said, and she thought she saw the glimmer of surprise in his razor-sharp eyes, uncertainty balancing precariously on the blade edge of his logic. “I would be…” he swallowed, as if he was admitting something very difficult, but then again, he was a hermit. For all she knew, it **_was_** difficult. “I would be glad for the company.”

They walked in silence the short distance to the door when she suddenly remembered her purpose and paused, pressing her hand against the doorframe and turning to look at him. “I meant to thank you,” she said, watching confusion briefly cross his features. “You saved my life. I found the herbalist’s notes, and he said that without you, I would have died within hours of the Breach.”

Another thoughtful expression passed over his features before he slowly shook his head. “Think nothing of it. I was curious about the Breach, and about the mark upon your hand.”

“You didn’t have to help,” she told him before she opened the door and began to back away. “It was dangerous to help, and yet you did. That kind of loyalty is always repaid where I come from.”

“I have no interest in being owed a debt,” said Solas as he stood on the doorstep of the small cabin. “Live. Close the Breach. Then you have repaid me.”

When this was all over, Revasel couldn’t help but wonder if Solas would return to his life of solitude.

When he shut the door in her face without another word, it felt like an answer.


End file.
